“Why?” was all I found to say.  The reason was not clear to me.

“Why, in the first place, because you can’t fight till your arm’s well—­oh, yes, of course Armand was going to fight you—­and, in the second place, you can and must stay here.  There’s no harm in it, while you’re ill, you see; Armand can’t say there is.  It’s rather funny, isn’t it, Mr. Aycon?” and she munched a morsel of toast, and leaned her elbows on the table and sent a sparkling glance across at me, for all the world as she had done on the first night I knew her.  The cares of the world did not gall the shoulders of Mme. de Saint-Maclou.

“But why are you here?” said I, sticking to my point.

The duchess set down the cup of coffee which she had been sipping.

“I am not particular,” said she.  “But I told the Mother Superior exactly what I told the duke.  She wouldn’t listen any more than he would.  However, I was resolved; so I came here.  I don’t see where else I could go, do you, Mr. Aycon?”

“What did you tell the Mother?”

The duchess stretched one hand across the table, clenching her small fist and tapping gently with it on the cloth.

“There is one thing that I will not do, Mr. Aycon,” said she, a touch of red coming in her cheeks and her lips set in obstinate lines.  “I don’t care whether the house is my house or anybody else’s house, or an inn—­yes, or a convent either.  But I will not be under the same roof with Marie Delhasse.”

And her declaration finished, the duchess nodded most emphatically, and turned to her cup again.

The name of Marie Delhasse, shot forth from Mme. de Saint-Maclou’s pouting lips, pierced the cloud that had seemed to envelop my brain.  I sat up on the sofa and looked eagerly at the duchess.

“You saw her, then, at the convent?” I asked.

“Yes, I met her in the chapel.  Really, I should have expected to be safe from her there.  And the Mother would not turn her out!” And then the duchess, by a sudden transition, said to me, with a half-apologetic, half challenging smile:  “You got my note, I suppose, Mr. Aycon?”

For a minute I regarded the duchess.  And I smiled, and my smile turned to a laugh as I answered: 

“Oh, yes!  I got the note.”

“I meant it,” said she.  “But I suppose I must forgive you now.  You’ve been so brave, and you’re so much hurt.”  And the duchess’ eyes expressed a gratifying admiration of my powers.

I fingered my arm, which lay comfortably enough in the bandages and the sling that Suzanne’s care had provided for it.  And I rose to my feet.

“Oh, you mustn’t move!” cried the duchess, rising also and coming to where I stood.

“By Jove, but I must!” said I, looking at the clock.  “The duke’s got four hours’ start of me.”

“What do you want with my husband now?” she asked.  “I don’t see why you should fight him; anyhow, you can’t fight him till your arm is well.”